The Art of Going Bananas
by youhavenofaithinmedicine
Summary: Tom slowly becomes unhinged.


**The Art of Going Bananas**

_Chapter One_

* * *

Tom still had nightmares sometimes. About gray walls and steel bars and dirty floors and toilets covered in piss and shit. Tom still slept with one eye open. He knew, across the room, his cellmate was there, somewhere, in the shadows, eyes glinting in the city's slight penetration of light through his window. Because Tom was a cop, and even if he was a kiddie cop, he was still a cop and therefore the enemy. Not that it mattered that much, really. Tom could have been a murderer (which they thought he was), a rapist, a fraud, a thief, a hooker…it wouldn't matter. He would still be the enemy. There were no friends in prison.

The minute he closed his eyes he was being thrown down, on his cot, on the floor, in the shower and they were calling him pretty and baby and look at that hot ass you'd think he was a woman and they'd drag him back up and he'd be sore before they'd throw him against the wall and continue on. And finally, they'd let him go and not grab him again, but everytime he moved he could feel them, their vigilant eyes, and their malevolent thoughts and he could feel where they'd hurt him, phantom pains, and he knew his suffering would only be a delusion for so long.

The nightmares were like that. They'd take him over and over again and he'd try to get out but his feet wouldn't move and he couldn't fight and then he was behind the bars again, encompassed in the gray walls, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bars and screamed that he couldn't take the smell of piss and shit anymore. And one time the guards screamed back, but the words were unintelligible and Tom screamed back at them, I can't hear what you're saying please stop ringing and speak English, goddamnit.

This particular instance, Tom awoke to the incessant ringing of his phone and the clock said it was noon and his sheets were twisted tightly around his body, wound about his leg, soaking from his sweat. He tried to pick up the receiver but it slid through his clammy hands and fell back into its cradle

He found his lips moving and emitting a sullen damnit and he knew he was late for work because the clock still said noon even though that couldn't possibly be right because five minutes must have passed him by, but he felt wet and stiff, almost paralyzed so maybe time had simply stopped.

It rang again. This time he managed to bring it to his ear.

"Yeah?"

"Hanson, you're late."

"Yeah, I know. It's noon. Sorry, Coach."

There was a pause on the other end for a really long time, so long Tom wondered if it was an infinite pause because the clock still said it was noon and maybe time _had _stopped and decided never to resume. Then he realized that that was absolutely ridiculous reasoning because time just couldn't stop like that - Fuller must have become a mute, or Tom must have gone deaf.

"…Hanson, are you still there? Hanson, so help me God, if you hung up, _you_ are not going to see _me_ in a decent mood for about a week."

"Huh?"

"Oh, so you're still there."

"I'm not deaf," Tom muttered to himself, feeling slightly relieved.

"Could have fooled me," Fuller's voice returned through the phone. "Now, it's ten in the morning, Hanson. I know you're not on a case, but you have to show up to work on time. You were supposed to be here by eight. That's two hours. What's your excuse, are you sick? Because you don't sound sick."

Ten in the morning? "My clock says it's noon."

"God help you if your clock was right. It's not twelve, Hanson. Are you sure it's not broken? Is it ticking?"

"It's digital."

"Is it blinking?"

Tom looked straight at his clock and counted the seconds away to make sure that the device wasn't stuck in mid-blink. He thought he saw a flash of something, but it wasn't decipherable, so he said, "No, it's not."

He heard Fuller heave a heavy, exasperated sigh. "How long has it said it was noon, Hanson?"

"Since I woke up."

"And you still think it's correct?"

Tom felt a blush creep across his cheeks and he buried his head slightly in his pillow. "Guess not."

There was another long pause on the end, but not so long that Tom started wondering if his hearing was going.

"Are you sure you're not sick, Tom?" First name. Concern.

Tom shook his head for a moment before realizing that Fuller couldn't see him over the phone. "No. I mean, yes…I'm not sick." He bit his lip, nervous, wondering what had gotten into him – wondering why he had just for that moment really and truly believed that time could just stop, just like that, even if he was moving and the phone was ringing and he was having a conversation and all of those things took time, and it's not like they had never happened. Everything had happened. Tom had woken in a sweat to a ringing phone. That was then. Now, he said meekly, "Just a little disoriented."

"Well, then if you're not here in an hour, your butt's going to be in a sling….again. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Tom hung up the phone and sat up in bed, rubbed at his eyes to crumble away the crust of sleep. It had been a long night and his bones ached. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, found his way to the shower and turned it on hot, almost scalding, it beat over his skin and each second felt like every inch of his skin was a little hand on a big stove. His bathroom clock, ticking, placed above his bathroom mirror, told him thirty minutes had passed and he allowed his eyes to drift down to his naked reflection and inform him that he had burnt himself.

"I already knew that," he mumbled.

He took his time getting dressed, walked slowly to his late father's car (his, now), and drove the speed limit to work.

He arrived on time.

* * *

One o'clock that afternoon found Tom slouched against his partner on the couch in Fuller's office, neat and tidy, unlike when it was Jenko's. Tom still missed Jenko sometimes. He didn't wear distracting sweaters like Fuller.

Today it was red with little splotches of white and cream and a few green lines here and there. Tom often wondered where his captain got these things, these hideous, blinding garments that made him think of bodily fluids, of waste, of blood, of pond scum and dirt, of everything that made him feel sick inside.

In the middle of greeting the two officers, Fuller stepped out for a moment to investigate a loud, resounding crash in the main space of the chapel. In this time, Tom took the moment to ask Doug,

"Don't you think his sweater's depressing?"

Doug craned his neck slightly, looking at Tom as much as he could. "What are you talking about, Hanson? It's bright and colorful. Like always."

"It makes me want to vomit. It's so-"

But Fuller came back in, so Tom bit his tongue and tried to look at the man's face instead of his sweater. His gaze faltered, traveling to the unlit lamp on Fuller's desk. He wanted to turn it on. The room was too dim.

"So, what's the case, Cap'n?" Doug asked.

Tom watched as his captain seemed to hesitate for a moment, as he made the slightest shift in his stance. Then Fuller rose to his fullest height and cleared his throat importantly.

"Two kids," he finally said, and reached onto his desk to grab hold of two folders, passing one to each officer. "Garrison Harvey and Peter Harris."

Tom opened his folder and found Peter Harris gazing back at him – a yearbook picture, no doubt, and one without a smile. A thin face with prominent cheekbones and sulky light eyes and dark hair that overpowered the small features. Tom thought he looked like one of those kids who normally wore glasses, but vainly and timidly took them off for the school photo thinking this year, just maybe, they'd look 'cool'. The kid didn't sleep, because he looked like Tom with dark rings under his eyes, and Tom could point out a guy that didn't sleep from a mile away.

"…so I need you two to befriend them and look out for them. Observe why this is going on," Fuller finished.

There was silence in the office and Tom wondered what had just been said and what the case was, because he had no idea.

But, luckily, Doug did.

His partner cleared his throat, importantly. "So…this is just another babysitting case?"

Fuller cocked his head to the side, as if thinking of another way to put it. Unfortunately, he couldn't. "Essentially," he agreed.

Doug groaned. Tom made a little moan of disapproval, too. To sound like he had been paying attention, which he hadn't.

"You start tomorrow. Southside High, eight o'clock sharp. Go to the office and give them the papers, you know the drill."

They nodded, said their 'yes sirs', and backed out of the office, folders in hand. Nearing Tom's desk, they stopped and looked at each other. Tom wondered why he and Doug played this game. It wasn't really a game, so much as just a thing they did. In which they looked at each other suspiciously for no reason at all, and didn't stop until one of them tired of it.

"Switch up?" Doug suggested, shoving away Garrison Harvey and snatching up a Peter Harris without waiting for an answer.

Tom looked at the photo of Garrison Harvey and immediately missed Peter Harris. The boy looked like he hadn't showered in days, his long hair lank and greasy, framing his slight, acne-spotted face. The kid was wiry, thin, the kind of kid you would hit really hard just to hit him because he was there and you were angry and even if you weren't angry at him, he was there, and that gave him a purpose and you a punching bag.

Tom shook his head thinking_, I didn't just think that._

"What's the case?" he asked Doug finally.

"Huh?"

"The case. I didn't catch it."

"You mean…while Fuller was explaining it to us?"

Tom narrowed his eyes, scrunched his brow, irritated. "Of course that's what I mean."

Doug held up two hands in self-defense. "Well, where did you go?"

Tom groaned. "_Douglas_, just tell me."

"They're being bullied."

"That's it?"

"Pretty much."

"Then why aren't we trailing their bullies instead of them?"

"That's what the case is, if you could even call it a case. Apparently, there isn't a specific bully. It's, like, the majority of the school."

"Well, what did they do to deserve that?"

Doug shook his head, shrugged. "It's a mystery."

Tom looked back down into the sad eyes of Garrison Harvey. Then he looked at the acne. And the little face. And the greasy hair. He felt sympathy, and then he felt disgust.

And then he was afraid, because maybe, he thought, it wasn't a mystery at all.

"Rocket Dog?" Doug suggested. "We don't really have to be here."

"No. I, uh…didn't get enough sleep last night. I think I'm going to head home."

After bidding his friend farewell, Tom got into his car and drove back to his apartment. He drove in silence, switching off the radio almost as soon as he had turned the key. He tried not to think.

When he got home, he fell onto his couch and thought about Peter Harris and Garrison Harvey. He imagined the faces pasted onto generic adolescent bodies, standing stock still in the moving mass of an overcrowded high school hallway. If they moved an inch the kids would see them. Garrison would move first, Tom thought, and Garrison would be shoved against a locker and the crowds would clear slightly, but not completely, because some of the kids would want to watch. They'd take Peter down quickly, too, but would be more gentle with him, because Peter was prettier than Garrison. Garrison was the punching bag, Peter was the fresh meat.

Tom closed his eyes and thought back to high school and how he and the other kids had called it prison. Then he fell asleep.

* * *

To Be Continued. Someday.


End file.
